


A Girl Like You

by le_chat_vilain



Series: The Joker and the Thief [5]
Category: Batman (Comics), Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Blood, Electrocution, F/M, Gore, Murder, NSFW, Smut, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 21:23:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5221277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/le_chat_vilain/pseuds/le_chat_vilain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Thief decides to finally claim the last of her possessions from her family home and lets Joker come along for the ride, revealing to him the true nature of her identity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Girl Like You

**Author's Note:**

> Okay this is going to get graphic. I suggest that if you’re squeamish you steer clear of this part of the story. There is a major plot point made but it will be rehashed in the next chapter for those uncomfortable reading gore, so it's perfectly okay to skip this chapter if need be.

I swing myself off him and the bed, and bend down to collect my clothes from the floor.

“Hey, where ya goin’?”

“Almost everything I own is sitting on your pool table in a duffle bag. It’s basically my entire life, and it all fits in a single bag. That’s depressing,” I inform him as I thread my legs into my leathers and pull on my faded Black Sabbath t-shirt.

“We can say the table’s yours if it makes you feel any better?” he offers.

“I said almost everything.” It’s true, there was one more thing in this world that belonged to me and yet was not in my possession. I had never sought to retrieve it before because I could never have trusted Selina around it, but that was clearly no longer an issue. “There’s one more thing, and I think I might go and take it back.”

“Right now? At 12.58 on a Friday morning?”

“Babe, 12.58 Friday morning is my Monday 9am.” Turning on my heel I exit the room to grab my tools of the trade from my bag. Gloves: check. Allen keys: check. Bubblegum: check. Powder compact: check. Assorted holsters: check: Magnet grapple: check. Weapons: check. Everything’s here, at least she wasn’t a complete cunt about it all. As I’m zipping up the leather hoodie the girls gave me for my birthday last year, a brief and undeniable pang of guilt hits me in the chest, but I have no time to dwell on it.

“So, where we headed?” He skids my lucky Chucks onto the table next to my equipment, and I turn to see him shrugging on his trench, face painted and ready to roll.

“We?”

“Can’t let you have all the fun, sweetheart. Besides, I wanna see you in action,” he smirks at me and tucks his revolver into the holster inside his coat. My immediate reaction is to tell him he’s not coming, but I reconsider when I realize what a brilliant twist of the knife he’ll be. I pop a piece of gum into my mouth and pocket the allen keys, ammo, and a butterfly knife, before jamming a Glock into the back of my jeans. I won’t need much tonight, in fact, thinking I’ll even need to let a shot off is pretty generous. I roll my eyes at him and flash him a smile that I’m certain has a decent lick of mischief in it. “Well?”

“Well…you ready to meet my father?” Well, re-meet. Technically.

There’s a split second of panic before that sinister grin snaps into place and his game face is on. He reaches for his car keys that are sitting in an old surgical bowl on a table by the door.

“You wont be needing those,” I tell him. No way in hell we’re taking that pig magnet he drives around, I don’t need the Bat or GCPD on my ass tonight, not with what I’ve got planned. “We’re just dropping in to take care of some shit, it needs to be quick and quiet, not like Michael Bay’s directing our every move.”

He pouts at me like a toddler, and I point at the keys, then to the bowl and stare at him until he drops them back down with a clang and a roll of his eyes.

“Good boy.” We head out of the old theatre and I lead him down the side alley, where I stashed my motorcycle. I whip the black tarpaulin off the old Ducati and toss him my helmet. He catches it with both hands and gawks at me in disbelief.

“Oh, hell no.”

“What’s the matter, don’t tell me you’re scared?” I tease with a wicked grin. I guess everyone’s afraid of something. He begrudgingly puts the helmet on.

“Let’s just say it ain’t my favourite mode of transport. How come you don’t need a helmet?” he asks, and it’s a fair question.

“Well for one I only have the one, and two, because if anyone’s gonna come to grief off this thing, it’ll be you,” I explain. I pop up the hood on my jacket and swing my leg over to sit on the bike. “Don’t worry, I promise I’ll go nice and fast for you.”

With a heavy sigh and a hint of a smile, he slides onto the back and loops his arms around my waist, not letting the opportunity to slip his hand up for a grope pass him by.

“You as good at riding this thing as you are at riding me?”

“Hey! None of that on the road unless you wanna get us both killed!” I warn and slap him away. I turn the key, raise the kickstand, and peel out of the alley to the north.

Once we’re out of the city I let her rip, pushing well over ninety miles per hour along the country road. I can feel him clinging onto me for dear life and I grin to myself and rev her right up over a hundred, popping up onto one wheel for a second just because I can. Within the hour we pull up at the gates of my father’s house.

While it’s technically an estate, it’s nothing grand or special. An old Victorian on several acres, with a big stone fence and an apple orchard. The place is shrouded in darkness which tells me daddy dearest isn’t home from his shift just yet. Good. I hide the bike in the bushes a good twenty metres from the gate, and use the knife to flick my now well chewed gum up onto the lens of the security camera. Chances are it’s not even connected – it was only ever there to keep me in anyway – but better safe than sorry.

As we’re scaling the wrought iron, apprehension niggles at the edges of my mind. By bringing him here with me, I’m letting him in on my biggest secret: my identity. He’ll know the second he gets in there and sees so much as a photo, but even then it will only be the tip of the proverbial ice berg. By the end of the night he’ll know more about me than any other person still drawing breath save one. He’ll know the secret buried by my family for generations. I push the feeling away, he was bound to find out eventually anyway. We weave our way through the apple trees to the eastern side of the house, where ivy grows up a trellis leading to the library window.

“Wait here.” I instruct, and dash up the wall as though it hasn’t been more than a decade since I last did it. I tuck my feet into the knots in the old vines and pick the lock faster than I had ever done as a teenager. Once I’m inside, I signal to him to follow, and he proves he’s pretty agile himself; Harley clearly taught him something during their time together.

The ancient grandfather clock in the corner chimes 3am. Any minute now.

Before he even gets a chance to straighten up I grab the lapels of his coat and tug him towards me, kissing him hard and almost violently, spurred on by the adrenalin that’s winding me up. The sound of tyres crunching on gravel outside registers in the back of my mind and I push him down onto my father’s favourite arm chair.

“Not that I’m complaining, but I thought you came here to steal something?” he remarks, looking me up and down with a puzzled smirk.

“I believe I said ‘take care of some shit.’ Stealing is just a given. I want you to see something first,” I explain as I unzip my jacket and throw it over the back of the couch next to us. I hear the key in the door downstairs and the creaking of century old hinges. “Show time.”

I drape myself across his lap, legs crossed and dangling over the arm of the chair, and my arm slung around his shoulders; I’m not usually one for theatrics but I’ll take a stab at it. I pinch a cigarette from the holder on the end table, and wriggle my hand into his pocket to retrieve his lighter. Even in the darkness I can see he’s beaming at me and shaking his head.

Weary footsteps creak on the stairs, and the light in the hall spills through the gap around the doorframe. The knob turns and it shines in and upon the wide open window. Then for the first time in over a decade, I hear him speak.

“Who’s here? Show yourself!” He takes a cautious step inside the room and I flick the zippo to light my cigarette before reaching back and turning on the lamp beside us.

“Hey, Dadda, long time no see,” I croon, my smile malicious when I finally turn my head to look at him. He appears as though he’s seen a ghost.

“No, it can’t be, you’re…you’re supposed to be-”

“Dead?” I finish the sentence for him, taking a drag and reaching my hand up the back of my partner in crime’s head to twist my fingers through his hair and chuckle softly. “Come on, old man, you didn’t really believe that, did you? Or were you really that desperate? I mean, does anyone ever really die in Arkham? You of all people should know, after all neither of us would exist if they did…”

“No, you’re dead. I’m…this isn’t real, I’m just overtired…hallucinating…”

I turn my smile to Joker and he returns it with one of intrigue. I give him a quick peck on the lips before unfolding myself from his lap and the chair to stalk over and turn the main lights on. Time for the big reunion.

When Dad sees the monster sitting in his chair he almost jumps out of his skin in terror; his face is white as a sheet and beads of sweat begin to appear on his forehead. I remember Harley telling me about how attempting to treat Joker had nearly landed my father in the asylum with us.

“HAHAHA! This is your father?” he asks me between sniggers. “What’s up, Doc? You miss me?”

I let them get reacquainted as I sneak to my father’s back. I love how much Joker’s loving this moment and now I’m glad I bought him along for the ride. It’s certainly having the desired effect on the old man.

“Still think you’re hallucinating, Dadda?” I hiss as I pull the door shut and lock it, the sound of the bolt shooting deafening to his ears I’m sure.

“Honey, is he putting you up to this?” he asks, turning to face me for the first time, voice trembling. I take another drag and flurry open the butterfly knife, then stare unblinking into his grey eyes, full of confusion, fear, and heartbreak. We all have those same eyes, clear and haunting, so light in colour that you could be mistaken for thinking us all blind. Not my great-great-grandfather’s only genetic legacy, but certainly the most obvious one. The other one is in the grey matter, not the grey eyes. I snort at him and swiftly point the blade to his throat and step forward, pushing him further into the room.

“Come on, old man, you know me better than that, you know what I’m here for.” I flick my eyes to the painting above his desk, the one behind which I know there is a safe. “It’s mine. She left it for me, and I’ve come to claim my inheritance.”

In my peripheral vision I notice Joker’s eyes widen when the subject of the portrait registers. When he returns his gaze to me it’s one of complete awe, and I imagine a rather large piece of our puzzle has fallen into place in his mind; the reason why we fit so well.

“Please, I can help you, just put the knife down and talk to me, please, just-” He chokes on the words as I bring the knife to rest against his skin.

“We can do this one of two ways, Dad. You can give me what I want, then I can give you a merciful death, and it will all be quick and boring. Alternatively, you can put up a fight and I’ll get to have some fun and show him what I’m really capable of, the choice is yours. I trust I don’t need to jog your memory on the whole Amelia debacle…”

Amelia was his horse. I thought she’d look better as a rug. I was 12.

I’ve waited so long for this moment, for my vengeance, payment for the years of suffering this man left me to, watched me endure from a distance and did nothing to ease. I hope he puts up a flight, I really do, because I am itching to make him scream.

“A-alright, you can have it just…before you do it, promise me you’ll hear what I have to say?” he begs.

“Sure, whatever.” I look at Joker and nod at the portrait, and he slowly rises from the chair and wanders over to it, running his fingers around the outside of the frame until he figures out which way to swing it. “Combination, now.”

“It’s…her birthday,” he whispers. How typical, no creativity.

“26 01 53,” I call out, and sure enough he’s telling the truth.

“She wouldn’t want this you know, she would want you to be better than this.”

“You’re probably right,” I concede, “but you see, the thing is…I’m not.”

I boot him hard in the stomach, sending him stumbling backwards to land on the couch. Unbuckling my belt and tugging it from it’s place, I fold it in two and strike him across the face; he starts to cry when the studs tear his cheek to ribbons. I hit him again, and again, relishing the sound of the leather snapping every time, until he’s curled into a ball and sobbing and bleeding on the rug.

“Everything…I ever did…was for you…because I love you…” he blithers between sobs.

“Oh please! Pathetic! That’s you in a nutshell, isn’t it Curtis?” I punt his ribs and he yelps. “You know what she wouldn’t have wanted? She wouldn’t have wanted you to abandon me in a fucking looney bin, you selfish, gutless cunt! Everything you did, everything you let them do to me was just so you didn’t have to acknowledge how badly you failed us both.”

He makes the mistake of rolling onto his back and unfolding his body, and I take the chance to leap into the air to land with both feet on his chest in a crouch, pinning him to the floor and cracking a few bones in the process. I dig my fingers into his cheeks to force him to look at me, look at the monster he created and what she’s become. Look into the eyes that are just like his, see the madness in them that he would never be able to cure; the curse of our wretched bloodline.

“I thought you said it would be quick,” he splutters, coughing blood up all over my hand. I bow my head so that my lips are level with his ear.

“I lied,” I chuckle, and put my cigarette out on his forehead. Reaching out to grip both of his wrists in my hands, I then abruptly stand and tug, dislocating his shoulders.

And there it is, the scream I’ve yearned to hear for so long. The scream I’ve been dreaming about since I was fifteen years old, and it’s every bit as glorious and satisfying as I had imagined. A cold cackle rings from my lips and I throw my head back to revel in the sounds as they fuse. His arms fall slack perpendicular to his sides when I release them. He tries to push away from me with his still functioning legs, so I take the pistol from my leathers and unload several shots into his kneecaps, clicking my tongue at him as I do.

For the first time in what feels like hours but has likely been mere minutes, I look up to see Joker staring at me, the grin on his face radiating adoration and pride. I wave my weapons at him in a silent invitation to join in on the fun, but he holds up both hands and declines.

“Oh no, you go ahead, I’m just enjoying the show,” he remarks.

“Good, I hate sharing,” I respond frankly.

He watches me as I go to a display cabinet in the corner of the room and retrieve my great-great-grandfather’s prized toy. I start winding it up, and wet the head strap down with some scotch from the decanter on his desk, then fix it firmly to my father’s balding head.

“Let’s see if Amadeus’ favourite still works, shall we?”

“No! No, please…please don’t…”

The good doctor’s eyes widen in horror as I turn the dials and the device whirrs to life; mine follow suit in deranged excitement. Without the use of his arms, he’s unable to do anything to stop the electricity that soon begins to sizzle the skin on his temples. I can smell the singed flesh in the air and it smells better than bacon, money, or sex to my senses. I zap him a few more times, making sure the voltage isn’t quite lethal, but enough to prevent him from putting up any kind of fight from here on out. I want him alive for what I have planned next, just enough that he knows what’s happening and who’s doing it.

I spend the next twenty minutes systematically removing portions of skin from his chest.

At first he screams, but soon he’s too weak to manage anything more than a pitiful whinny. Even once I’m done and I’ve spelt out our family name across his torso, he’s somehow still alive; a pain in my ass until the very end.

His eyes meet mine and through the rivers of tears he silently begs me to just finish him. I don’t. I sit there and stare right back, watching them run down onto the floor and disappear into the growing pool of blood that’s now ruined what I’m certain was a very expensive Persian carpet. I let my eyes drill into his, let the satisfied smile on my face be the last thing he ever sees. His breathing finally shallows, and as I sense the last dregs of life leaving his body, I bring my face within inches of his, and without breaking eye contact, say my last goodbye.

“Fuck. You.”

The last of the air in his lungs escapes and I let the knife drop to the floor as I sit back and tilt my face to the ceiling, running my bloody hands through my hair. I’m a giggling, swirling mass of liberation and grief - not for the loss of my father, but for the loss of my mission in life. I rise to my feet slowly, thoroughly impressed with myself, but a little sad I didn’t think up anything more. A shadow is cast over me, and I look up to see the clown prince peering down, a dark grin on his lips and a rather obvious standing ovation in his pants.

With a sweep of his foot he kicks the still warm corpse out of the way. He steps towards me, shoves his hand inside the waistband of my pants, and yanks me forward to trap me in a brutal kiss. Wasting no time in tugging them down and carrying me over to sit on the desk, he proceeds to fuck me mercilessly like a man possessed. It’s hard, and it’s fast, and his hand is growing tighter around my throat by the second. I feel my grip on consciousness waning as though the building orgasm is draining it away. As the specks creep into the corners of my vision, he releases me and the flood of oxygen returning to my brain pushes me off the edge with him and into a state of delirious bliss.

We slide down to sit on the floor, our backs resting against the heavy oak, fingers intertwined and both of us admiring my handiwork.

“Now that,” he nods at the mess in front of us, “was…damn, baby. Your own father? Gotta admit, I didn’t think you had that in ya.”

“You’d be surprised what I’m capable of,” I inform him.

“So much more than a pretty face,” he mumbles, eyes catching mine for a moment before glancing away to the portrait. “Ya know, I never thought this’d be what they meant when they told me I’d be in and outta Arkham for the rest of my life.”

I can’t help but laugh. Cheeky bastard.

“Starting to make a whole lot more sense, isn’t it?”

“I knew we were made for each other.” He turns his head back and kisses me gently as the first rays of dawn begin to creep through the window. He’ll have questions, of course he will, but they can wait.

After straightening ourselves up, I retrieve my prize from the safe, sneaking a quick peek inside the blue velvet box to make sure it’s in there; thankfully it is. I swipe a few more things from the house on my way out, the old electroshock device and my cigarette butt among them, and stroll out the gates for the last time.

Within the hour once more, we’re back at home, cleaned up and tucked between the sheets, drifting off together into whatever beautiful nightmares sleep would bring.


End file.
